


Wherein worthy

by disenchanted



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Power Imbalance, Premature Ejaculation, stupid sexy Hotspur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5645056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disenchanted/pseuds/disenchanted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal almost gets a leg over, and Falstaff almost gets a title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherein worthy

**Author's Note:**

> [Lilliburlero](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero) got me thinking about Hal/Falstaff porn and [premature ejaculation!Hal](http://lilliburlero.tumblr.com/post/69110828679/child-164-king-henrys-conquest-of-france), and I couldn't help myself. This is a sort of reworking of 1HIV 2.4 with more sex and fewer sheriffs. The 'play' Hal and Falstaff put on at the beginning was inspired largely by [Jamie Parker's rendering](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KW0X1N7AcAE&feature=youtu.be&t=279) of Hal's imitation of Hotspur.

It wasn’t as if Hal had never thought of it before; it was simply that he had never felt moved to act. Fucking, for him, was an impulsive response to some accident of circumstance: Poins tumbling into bed beside him, having been left frustrated by a girl, or for that matter Doll sitting on his lap and refusing to get up till he had her (for the price of a couple of capons, which Hal thought would have satisfied him better). When in Falstaff’s company Hal exhausted his impulsiveness in humiliating the old man, a pursuit more commendable than fucking in that it was an amusement which all in the vicinity could enjoy. Kingly, thought Hal; it showed how he considered his people.

Fitting, then, that he was first moved really to act when he was acting: he was Hotspur of the north, another Harry, slapping his wife’s arse and bidding her give him a drench of his own, to heal his wounds. Standing in for the undoubtedly curative arse of Dame Mortimer were the knight-errant’s swollen hindquarters.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I think I’d rather have the horse,’ said Falstaff, reaching behind him to rub away the pain of Hal’s slap.

'What!’ cried Hal. 'I’ll give you something that _isn’t_ spotted.’

'You mean you haven’t been at the Welshwomen?’

'If I had, I’d not have anything to give you!’

Idly Hal wondered how it was that Hotspur and Kate Percy did go about fucking. Kate he imagined _would_ compare her husband unfavourably to his horse, if only to agitate him enough that he would throw her down on the bed and get on with it; Hotspur he imagined would meet his wife’s wit only piecemeal, when to do so wouldn’t scrub too harshly at his honour. Once in the middle of things he would be deadly serious, which Hal had learnt enough to know was deadly dull.

Would he and Falstaff be able to approximate it, if they did go so far in the act as that? More probably Falstaff would, like Hotspur, buckle under his own passions, and subject himself to a dignified sort of indignity. Even now Falstaff was lowering himself to his hands and knees, feigning a puppyish advance towards the chair in which Hal sat with his legs spread wide. At the last moment Hal tipped back in his chair so that the chair fell out from under him, bringing him also to the floor.

 

* * *

 

It was near four o'clock, and Falstaff was sprawled ungainly across one of the upstairs beds, when Hal found him again. Hal flung himself over Falstaff’s girth and pressed his knees and elbows into any soft patch of flesh he could find; that, more than wailing, was likely to bring Falstaff round.

'You son of a leaking whore,’ muttered Falstaff, making to heave Hal away. 'I’ll flog you red for this, you prick-thin knave, you villainous eel.’

'My dear Kate,’ said Hal, holding fast, 'have I been gone so long you’ve forgotten how to invite me to your bed? What a welcome for a sore old warrior.’

'Sore old warrior? You’re on top of one,’ said Falstaff. “S'no way to lie with your wife, either. You get into bed like this with a woman and she’ll shove you out directly. There are better ways to get your leg over.’

Hal, after letting out a great gusty beery yawn, said, 'What does it matter how I do it if I do get it over?’ Then he wriggled till he was sitting astride Falstaff’s lap, the skirts of his houppelande gathered about his waist and the insides of his thighs flush against Falstaff’s wide belly.

He was drunk enough that he did not feel it fully, but he was aware all the same that his prick was hard and that it would be easiest to get off and be done with it. Hal took so little pleasure in pleasure itself. He liked, though, the frisson of secret-keeping he felt when he kissed Falstaff’s hairy mouth and imagined he was Harry Percy, come to Kate’s bed with the blood of some six or seven dozen of Scots still under his fingernails. To Falstaff, he knew, he was only the Prince of Wales making one last jest at the expense of his fat old friend; but Hal was bored of being that, just as he had long since got bored of letting Poins throw him over a pillow and fuck him. He clung to Falstaff in a manner he hoped evidenced a sort of Hotspurrian incapacity to either control or be controlled. So clinging, it wasn’t difficult to work Falstaff up to a limpish cockstand and, on the strength of that, beg him to suck him off.

'I don’t think I care, frankly, to be put in charge of the organ royal,’ said Falstaff. 'Imagine I crushed it…. 'Sblood, plump Jack’s head would take a tumble.’

'What, is there anything I need it for, but to piss with? I’ll die in battle and little Thomas or little John will sire sons. Or Mortimer will take the crown.’

More convincing than Hal’s thoughts on the continuation of the Plantagenet line was the fact that he had crawled up Falstaff’s body and undone his hose and braies, with the effect that his prick was half-buried in Falstaff’s sauce-stained beard, tempting as a capon’s thigh dripping grease but redolent of its own sort of musk. Hal took himself in hand and slapped Falstaff’s red cheek with his shaft.

'Or I’ll be king,’ said Hal, 'and I’ll give you a title for your trouble.’

Falstaff had scarcely got his lips around the head of Hal’s prick (and it wasn’t a thing of such extraordinary proportions that taking hold of the whole of it would have strained one’s jaw) when Hal discovered, abruptly, perhaps even belatedly, that the prick in question was jerking and letting loose a dribble of spunk. With that the last bit of Hotspur’s spirit was lost. The great drunk bastard beneath Hal didn’t notice, and did his damndest to get Hal’s prick in his mouth.

'Christ! Stop—stop, stop,’ said Hal, falling onto the bed beside Falstaff, 'that’s enough.’

Falstaff, wiping his beard with his sleeve, said, 'Now why don’t you get beneath that big belly of mine and see if cocksucking suits you.’

'Ha! Would I hell as like,’ said Hal, giving, nonetheless, Falstaff’s stomach a smack, in the way that one smacks one’s lover’s arse after fucking him. Then, fastening his hose, smoothing out his skirts, he rolled off the edge of the bed and onto his feet. 'No, you great lump, I’m off to see my father. I’ll chat with him about that title while I’m there, though. What do you think—baron? Hm? Of course I’ll have to give Poins one to make it even; he’s had my prick in his mouth a good few minutes longer than you have. Cheers!’

 

* * *

 

Of course it was Poins whom Hal encountered, leaving the Boar’s Head. Poins was just returning, his parti-coloured hose spattered with questionable stains and his cheeks in high English pink. He clapped Hal on the back and told him about the clean-faced squire he’d rubbed off in an alley, at the last moment remembering to ask whether Hal had had anyone that night.

'I don’t see why you’d be up at this hour if you hadn’t,’ said Poins, laughing, leaning in the doorway. For already the smoke-thick air of Eastcheap was beginning to lighten; the torch beneath the tavern’s sign looked more wan than inviting.

'Drinking with the tapsters,’ said Hal, 'and I wouldn’t dare fuck one of them; I’d have to tip.’

'Tomorrow night, then,’ said Poins, turning in towards the door; but before he went through, he turned back to clasp Hal with one arm, in the sort of gesture traded between men.

 

* * *

 


End file.
